


Gorgeous

by nacho_bucky



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Angst, F/M, Friends to Lovers, PTSD, Romance, talk of divorce
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-03-14
Updated: 2021-03-20
Packaged: 2021-03-21 21:33:50
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,007
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/30028155
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nacho_bucky/pseuds/nacho_bucky
Summary: The strong, loving friendship you and Bucky have built over several years is beginning to buckle under the weight of too many things gone unsaid. But a weekend away may be about to change everything. Updates every Saturday.
Relationships: James "Bucky" Barnes/Reader
Comments: 1
Kudos: 19





	1. One

**Author's Note:**

> This story is a continuation of events introduced in my other story, Sparks Fly, also available on AO3.

A whisper of linen; you swept the cloth napkin across your lap, took a sip of water, and mentally replayed the conversation with Bucky – for the hundredth time since leaving your apartment.

_Hey, gorgeous. I’m here – what do you need?_

Always there to reassure, to handle any problem, even the smallest. You would have forgiven him for taking a sharper tone, since you had been harping on about the tweets and the email since noon, but he was soft, as gentle as ever. Voice smooth and rich – like coffee, you’d told him once, but sweeter than he took it.

“I’m a cappuccino, darlin’,” he’d cooed then, tackling you into the sofa, laptop gone flying, and you’d laughed big enough to swallow all the years of doubt.

Well, most of them.

“Can I have a look at your wine list, please?” Ted offered you a toothy smile, before affably waving away the waiter – he (your date, not the waiter) was Abercrombie handsome, all smooth-cut jaw and eyes green as emeralds. He genuinely looked like the type of guy to represent an athletic wear company: every inch of him smacked of weekend hikes and expensive gym memberships. His arms were straining at the hems of his crisp shirt; his grin sparkled as he appraised you one more time. “You look beautiful,” he said again.

And again, you felt the dull, clanging ache of a nonplussed heart, but you mustered a polite smile just the same. “Thank you,” you said, reaching again for the water, fingers trembling on the stem of the glass. “This really is a nice place.”

Ted smiled, waving his hand around as though he’d personally ordered the fine furniture, the minimalist aesthetic – cream tablecloths and colourful, abstract art splashed over the walls. Each table was lit by a small, flickering votive, which highlighted the handsome angles of his face in new ways, so that every time you looked across at him, your belly flipped anew.

But not, you realized, because of any real attraction. Objectively, he was gorgeous. Objectively, he was kind and friendly, with a surprising – and heartening – interest in you. But underneath all that, that familiar itch of discomfort began to grate against the softer context, the hope with which you’d picked out this dress, borrowed those shoes, and swept on your makeup.

The hope that, this time, you’d feel something _subjective_.

“It’s one of my favourite restaurants,” he was saying. “I take my grandma here whenever she visits the city.”

You smiled at that, caught off-guard by the thought. Big, muscly Ted – sales rep for Incline Ltd (the most ironic name you’d ever heard for a company that had its roots in hiking gear) – guiding a sweet little old lady into the same seat he’d just helped you into? Okay, that was too cute not to picture.

He seemed visibly heartened by your reaction, smile growing wider – God, his teeth were _brilliantly_ white – as he began to chat about her, how she had grown up in the city during the Second World War, eventually training and performing as a ballerina of some renown. “She was headhunted, you know,” Ted said eagerly, leaning forward with a proud gleam in his eyes. “She came from a poor family in Queens, but this school, they wanted her, and she travelled all over the world, dancing. Even danced for some royalty.”

“She sounds wonderful,” you said softly, endeared by this story and Ted’s genuine joy in telling it. He wasn’t boasting, no; just proud of what his family had come from. The treasures in her attic; the nieces and nephews following in her strong, skilled footsteps.

The grandma story washed over you as Ted broke off to choose a wine, and then order his meal – and yours. There was a casual chauvinism to the action, one that had you bristling. At least he’d done the courtesy of checking for dietary restrictions and preferences first, but still. Bucky would never –

Oh, but he did.

Bucky always ordered you a number three from the taco truck; knew just how you liked your morning smoothie from the start-up around the corner. But Bucky was, thankfully, on an entirely different level, a different wavelength. And Ted, nice as he was, just wasn’t there yet.

And damn it, the gnocchi was good.

The grandma story had a sequel in the success of his uncle, his father’s resentment, and a subsequent rift in the family that had lasted until Ted’s college graduation. He told you all of this with a storyteller’s flair, so that it took you until dessert was nearly finished (a dark chocolate treasure box filled with a creamy raspberry mousse) to realize how deeply bored you had grown. Ted asked no real questions about your own life (hell, at this point, you would’ve happily chatted about your own grandma), only his – relatives, career, running schedule, and, as the icing on the cake you longingly eyed over at a nearby table, his ex.

“God, I miss her,” he said suddenly, pushing away his glass of wine. “This was…I mean…”

Your stomach sank. Rejection could come in so many ways, but after the fact was perhaps the worst. He’d just spent an hour in your presence, and now –

“Teddy?”

A pretty woman, dark hair escaping in charming tendrils from underneath a tall, white hat, approached uncertainly, hands twisting in front of her. A blush heated her cheeks, and her eyes darted uncertainly between the two of you.

The straps of your expensive bra were beginning to dig into your sides.

Ted – Teddy – flushed in response, perfect teeth digging into the plump bottom lip you’d hoped, earlier, to be kissing by nine, but here it was eight-fifteen and he was still clearly in love with his ex. He tugged at his blue silk tie, sweat beading on his forehead, his smile more an apologetic wince right now. “Um, hey, Daisy,” he said, voice trembling out in a rush.

He stood, bumping into the table, napkin falling into the floor. “I recognized your order,” she said softly, smoothing down the front of her double-breasted coat. A chef. She was a chef. _The_ chef. He’d brought you to his ex-girlfriend’s restaurant, initiated the entirely loin-cooling conversation about his _grandmother_ , and to what end? To leave you sitting there awkwardly, watching as Daisy’s eyes filled with memory and his with regret?

Anger would take too much energy, you realized, downing the last of your wine with a gulp. Besides, he had never expressed anything strictly romantic; you’d actually felt quite indulgent, agreeing to a date with him for tonight, knowing relatively little about him. Only that he was one of the easiest sales reps to work for; that he always made a point of poking his head into your office to say _hello_ when dropping off new merchandise.

Only that his eyes were green, not a clear, perfect blue.

“I am so _sorry_ ,” he said, Daisy’s hand in his, both bearing well-coordinated guilty expressions. “I never meant for this to be a manipulation thing, I honestly didn’t know she was working tonight, and I –”

You held up a hand, trying to keep your smile warm, if tight. “Look, I get it. Life and love are messy. I _will_ be requesting a slice of that chocolate cake” – you pointed at the scraped-clean plate of the man next to you – “for the road, though, and my time.”

By way of an apology she didn’t need to give, Daisy handed over the rest of the cake from the dessert display, entirely free of charge. You waved off her effusive sorrys and levelled a stony, if understanding, look at Teddy, who had the decency to blush. “I…that was rotten,” he said, as though just realizing it himself.

A greedy eye on the cake, you shoved your arms through the sleeves of your coat, thinking only of sliding out of these heels, that damn bra, and going to _town_ on dessert. “A bit,” you agreed, keeping your tone as affable as possible, “but not unforgivable. I had a nice time. Thanks for dinner. See you on Thursday morning?”

He brightened, relieved; his shoulders melted and Daisy wound an arm around his waist. They looked…better. Happy. The details of the breakup had sounded murky at best, and at least, you thought, someone wasn’t going home alone tonight.

With a sigh, you thumbed open your Uber app, and prepared to call it a night.

* * *

The door slammed shut with more force than Bucky was expecting; he jumped out of bed, heart pounding and sweat trickling down the small of his back. How he’d worked up a sweat, he had no clue. Ever since he’d said goodbye to you over the phone, Bucky had been sprawled across his bed, fresh sheets courtesy of Sam again, shoving in a pair of earbuds pouring out some relaxing piano playlist to suit his melancholy mood.

‘Melancholy’ was softer than ‘fucking dejected,’ so Bucky took it. Took it and curled up in the shape of it on top of his comforter, breathing in the mountain air dryer sheets Sam always picked up for him from Costco.

He poked his head out into the hallway, in time to see Sam standing there in front of the closed apartment door, removing his glasses just to pinch at the bridge of his nose, to breath out a heavy sigh.

Had the pretty firefighter left? So abruptly?

Bucky was reluctant to step outside his own little bubble of melancholy, though, especially if Sam was in need tonight of something he couldn’t give. Years of therapy and friendship had taught them both that there were inevitably going to be moments where Bucky couldn’t carry anything for Sam, and tonight was one of them.

Besides, Sam was an adult. He could handle this.

Quietly, he shut his bedroom door, retreated back into the dim light, this time sitting down at his desk to find some semblance of purpose in the rest of the evening. Journalling was an option; he hadn’t done it in a few days – in fact, the last time he had opened it, he’d been at the cabin. Sitting on the dock in a chilly autumn breeze, scribbling out a small, delicious hope.

_I’m going to tell her._

He looked down at it now with a wrinkled brow, as though it were some ancient code, something to be re-understood in the context of this evening.

Your voice had sounded so sweet on the phone: _Buck, I’ve got a date._

Rounded with hope, buoyed by too long spent unattached. Watching him date everyone with a pulse – Bucky grimaced, and crossed out the words. He jotted down a few lines about the week, about Sam meeting this new, lovely woman with a quick wit and a fascinating job. He pushed away the sound of your voice, the thought of you with Ted. Dumb Ted with his dumb shoes and his stupid perfect smile and how the hell did he get his hair coiffed so perfectly?

A chirp from his phone.

He glanced over hopefully – but it wasn’t Gorgeous splashed across his screen. It was an alert from the new dating app he’d downloaded earlier. With a sigh, Bucky clicked through to a smiling face, different enough from Sandra’s that he didn’t have to feel a pang, and, as always, different from yours, too.

Vaguely, he was embarrassed. As he always in moments like these, when he sought refuge from the tumble of feelings in temporary assignations. He liked to think of himself as useful, a placeholder. A safe place to land for these women, since he never looked for anything permanent, anything more than a few weeks of fun dates, coy smiles, and good sex.

 _That_ was always a guarantee.

Even if he never slept, even if he stayed awake with a woman’s head on his chest and his mind racing through everywhere he had been. Even if the sex sometimes left him feeling a bit lost, a bit empty, and he would wake her up in the morning looking for something else – a secret, a joke, something so uniquely her he could feel less guilty about only taking, and giving not much back.

 _Anita_.

She was a pharmacist, with a pun in her bio and a smile that made him feel as though he’d just downed a glass of champagne. Casual, that’s what she wanted. Casual, safe, fun.

Bucky hovered his thumbs over the screen, trying not to look at the snaking scar inching out from under the sleeve of his shirt, before it bled into tattoos – raw skin and memory. If he texted her, if he started this, would she be just like Lyddie? Like Jane? Like Sandra? A litany of friendly, beautiful women, each unique and wanting something from him he couldn’t give away?

Or…no. He was shitting himself. Absolutely fooling himself if he thought that they wanted that from him.

 _You_ hadn’t.

“What the hell,” he muttered, typing out a response chipper enough to fool even himself, to ignore the phone call from you that burst on his screen half a second later, to make himself believe he wanted this with Anita – this pretty, soft fling; and not a deeper, wilder love.

* * *

Bucky’s voicemail kicked in as you were stripping off your coat, balancing both regret and dessert rather precariously. PJs were a must, and then you were going to positively ravish the cake. It was strange that Bucky hadn’t answered; he always did, right away, gravelly voice purring out _honeys_ and _how are you?_

But there had been that strange hollow ache to his goodbye, when you’d called earlier. Admittedly, it _had_ been some time since you had been out on an actual date, but surely he wasn’t put out by that. Not when he spent most of his time with a revolving door of women. Most of whom you’d liked. With the possible exception of June.

You shuddered at the memory.

Shuddered at the memory, and from the cold of your apartment. Winter was coming, and with it, the busiest time of the year for gyms. Resolutions for the new year always brought a wave of brand-new, eager, or embarrassed clients to the doors of the gym, and the shared vision for the business and personal trainers who worked there was to either keep as many as possible, or, at the very least, give them a little boost of momentum to carry them down a healthier path.

And it took a hell of a lot of paperwork.

The irony of your professional goals and the massive chocolate cake in front of you now wasn’t lost, so, with a disappointed but mature sigh, you cut yourself a small slice and put the rest in the fridge.

It would’ve been sweeter with him there.

As so many things were. But – boundaries. Independent time. It was important. As the weekend away at his parents’ cabin had been, not too long ago. You’d been a little hurt to have a phone call from Bucky’s mom, questioning why you hadn’t joined him and Sam on the trip. More hurt when you realized he hadn’t told you at all. Plastering on a cheery voice and lying through your teeth to Winnie Barnes was one of the hardest things you’d ever had to do.

By the bluish glow of your laptop, you ate the cake, changed Ted’s contact name to Incline Rep, and tried to muster some enthusiasm for the day ahead. Tried not to think about the the tiny pain of Bucky’s voicemail; of the ache in his goodbye; of the rough rise of petty envy at Daisy’s hand being held, her heart being wanted, of being pursued and chased and _remembered_.

It was hard to be remembered, you reasoned, when he wasn’t ready to forget.


	2. Two

Tickets? Booked. Hotel room? Reserved. Bags? Woefully empty.

You stared around the chaos of the office you shared with Bucky, biting at your bottom lip when you realized just how behind you actually were. The conference in Las Vegas would start in just about eighteen hours, and yet you were still half-buried under a mountain of paperwork, an energy drink balanced precariously on a stack of new client intake forms.

A sigh, and a sip. Some violent rendering of watermelon burned your throat on the way down; Bucky hated these things, hated that you drank them, hated that the gym stocked them. You did, too, honestly. The dream the two of you had carved together years ago was coming together piecemeal and jumbled. A few steps ahead, and a few steps back.

In six months, you might be able to get rid of the vending machine. In six months, the world might be different.

 _He_ might be different.

The computer was slow to boot up; when it did, the carefully-traced logo that Bucky had drunkenly designed during a graduation party popped up, and at the sight of it, you smiled. As you did every single time. You clicked through to the digital forms and began to dutifully fill out new information for the dozen clients signed on this week.

The gym was quiet this time of night. The other freelance trainers had long since gone home; the college student and his brother you’d hired to clean had just signed off for the night, leaving things sparkling and smelling sweetly of coconut. It was one of your favourite times, just to breathe in the space you’d built, crafted…birthed. Together with Bucky, this dream had gone from dozy, whiskey-soaked ramblings to something good, something real. And it helped people.

An email popped up, and you jumped, wondering if it was from him – he’d been surprisingly quiet the last few days – but no. Just another confirmation from one of the conference showrunners, finalizing the schedule for your presentation.

Maybe he was nervous about that, you wondered, distantly – maybe that could account for his silence? His stiff civility in person? His habits had been mostly the same – rolling in precariously close to his first appointment time, an iced coffee in hand for you, stretching out in his preferred gear – basketball shorts, one of his long-sleeved shirts. Lightweight, always, but enough to conceal his arms.

“Good morning, gorgeous,” he always said. Always. Even – and perhaps especially – when you didn’t feel an inch of it. Harried and stressed from lack of sleep and a lumpy mattress; poring over accounts and plans and contracts; buried under the invisible press of unanswered emails, endless phone calls, ferrying information back and forth between clients and vendors and the frightening landlord. And his mother.

Winnie Barnes was the name most often in your missed calls list. She had an uncanny habit of calling at the worst possible moment, checking in with your general health – “ _You’re eating right, aren’t you, lovey?_ ” – and her son’s relationship status. In the fashion of mothers with three out of four children settled well in love and happiness, Winnie had begun to fixate on Bucky’s personal life with an impassioned ferocity that could put most lionesses to shame. Hungry for details, fastidious in her critique, and she trusted only you and one of Bucky’s neighbours to tell her the truth.

If she were to call tonight, though, you would have nothing to offer. Only that he looked well; his hair was getting longer and longer, enough that he’d begun tying it back in a small bun while he was instructing, a sight that had your heart pounding and your mouth going bone dry in the strangest way. He’d forgotten a dentist appointment two weeks ago, even though you had circled it in hot pink on the shared calendar above your desks.

There were women, of course. One had called at work – a bubbly woman, frothing over with humour and jokes until she had you laughing in your chair – but there were no more names. That was troubling; Bucky always shared their names.

Eleven o’clock. The long day screeched in your spine and shoulders as you stretched, wishing you’d thought to join in on the evening yoga session.

What was at home but scant sleep and an early wake-up call? When the conference and presentation had first been booked, you and Bucky had both been bursting with excitement. Finally, a chance to represent the benefits of a local fitness centre; a holistic approach to health and self-acceptance. A chance to show up against the bigger chains and be, hopefully, somehow acknowledged for the years of work and effort.

The chill had crept in since your disastrous date with Ted – or perhaps before that. Had you dropped the ball? Broken his heart? Let him break yours?

Or – and this thought was colder than the night air, as you left the office and locked the front doors, stepping out into the frosty New York street with only a hoodie and a thin pair of gloves – had you missed a window? Let an important moment pass you by; lost the chance to tell him what had burned with a small, pleasant ache inside of you for so many years? A little flame threatened by self-doubt, guttering with dismay, with disappointment, and the battering of any small hopes?

The city crawled on; the winter crept closer; and somewhere, a few blocks away, you wondered who might be keeping his bed warm on this last night, while you shuffled home to an empty one.

* * *

Stomach growling, Bucky tried to settle into his seat. Fortunately, you’d reserved two next to each other, so he didn’t have to worry about awkward small talk or silences for the next five hours. But where were you?

He’d sent a couple of texts; you reassured him you were at the airport, just sneaking in a quick breakfast before take-off. But his familiar nerves began to rumble, pushing out any sense of hunger, replacing it only with the old fear.

That every flight could be his last.

“Hey.”

He blinked and smiled, relieved to see you – already dressed for the conference, like him, in a black blazer and tailored trousers that couldn’t be comfortable for the flight, but he wasn’t going to be the one to say anything. A little burble of a gentle possessiveness struck through him when he saw the necklace he’d given you years ago, your initial etched on a gold disc, bouncing its way from the collar of your blouse.

As always, you were smoothly professional. In a way he struggled to be at work, running around in workout gear and a big, uneven smile. “Hey, gorgeous,” he said, and some tension – that he had failed to spot – leaching from your shoulders as your pretty face melted into a prettier smile.

The urge to kiss it brimmed bright, but he wedged it back down; a reflexive habit, by now. “You’re comfy?” you asked, shoving the battered laptop bag his parents had bought for graduation, years ago, in the overhead compartment.

Bucky nodded, and wished for something easier.

A stiffness had entered his interactions with you, his thoughts of you, in the past few weeks, and it was getting harder and harder for him to put his finger on just why that was. Certainly, the news of your date hadn’t gone over well – it had sunk into his bones like a vat of cold water, burning him strangely with the freeze. Maybe it made sense, he reasoned now, sleepily – these seats were surprisingly comfortable – maybe it made sense that letting you go was cold and hot at the same time, because loving you thus far had hurt so much.

He tried to see if there was something new in your movements; maybe a fresh perfume, a different kind of grace. But no – just the same, beloved flurry of action; a furrow in your brow; a weight to your smile. “How have you been?” you asked, and Bucky’s stomach clenched at the note of uncertainty in your voice.

“Um, yeah, good,” he said, swallowing thickly and wishing he hadn’t put so much gel in his hair. “You?”

A shadow raced across your expression, just for a split-second, but Bucky was familiar enough with the shape and contours of your face to understand. Something unpleasant lingered behind the forced, cheery tone, as you began prattling on about things he already knew: Morgan and Doreen were ready to launch the children’s health program next Saturday; a community group was looking for a place to sell their handmade jewellery, raising money to help a family get back on their feet after a fire; and you’d managed to find some pretty, twinkling lights at the secondhand store, enough to bring a bit of holiday cheer into the gym.

Between each rapid sentence, as the plane took off, Bucky could hear the whisper of something else you needed, or wanted, to tell him. Maybe about the guy, maybe about the date. Maybe about the night on the lake, a hundred years ago, when you’d pressed your cold hands to his heart and told him he wasn’t broken, wasn’t anything less than the best man you’d known.

His mouth went dry, and his eyes grew heavy, as too many sleepless nights began to weigh on him. Bucky drifted off with the feather-soft brush of your words against his skin, chatter filling the space between, until he could almost imagine the night on the dock, whippoorwill singing in the background; August breathing deep and watchful all around. She’d known. Summer had always known.

* * *

Bucky stirred in time for landing, but the five-hour flight had been strangely awkward without him. You’d amused yourself for a few minutes by just looking at him, watching him sleep in a way that reminded you of cool nights a long time ago, tangled in sheets and sticky-limbs, waking in the fragile, pink dawn with hope in your hearts and greedy kisses on your lips. There was a hunger to the friendship, back then, one that had never quite been sated, but which had dulled to a quiet roar these days.

The future was business – it was college degrees, and Bucky in a button-down shirt, and sitting stiffly next to each other in painful, pinchy folding chairs in a stuffy conference room. It was fumbling for the adaptor in your laptop bag while he told a few jokes to the solemn, healthy-looking crowd. The future was the boy you’d once followed on endless hikes through the thick, mosquito-soaked forest, grown now into a man, holding forth on the stage with funny anecdotes and gesturing professionally to the spreadsheets.

Stepping aside with a proud expression when it was your turn to speak.

“We believe that a fitness centre should be far more than a room full of scary, clanking equipment,” you said, sweeping the laser pointer up at the screen. Glossy, professional photos – Bucky had called in a few favours to get them done relatively cheap – of the gym were splashed there in vivid colour. In the far corner of one, Bucky was laughing, hair swept up under a ball-cap, leaning against a barre.

It was one of his favourite workouts, but only you knew that.

“Our facility opens its doors to the community,” you continued, encouraged by a few nodding heads, some listeners even taking notes on expensive tablets. “Through regular surveys and an open line of communication, we try hard to receive enough feedback to keep us aware of what our community needs from us.”

Nerves had threatened backstage, but you were sure of the information, sure of the message. Bucky’s presence – all woodsy cologne and cheerful beam – was a bit of a balm, too. When you began to lay out the numbers, and open up for questions, you found those butterflies swarming in your belly again, and shot a few glances over at him throughout, fingers gripping the laser pointer and the edge of the podium.

“Yes, number 412,” you said quietly, gesturing to a woman with a slick hairstyle and trendy, form-fitting workout clothes. Her composure was in stark contrast to the sweat pooling under your arms and tickling at your hairline.

“Thanks!” The woman stood, clipboard in hand, flashing you and Bucky a bright grin. “First of all, I just wanted to commend you on the presentation – as well as your whole premise here. Evoking the holistic feel of a local gym in a big city isn’t an easy undertaking, but it’s one of the best ways to encourage healthy living.”

What a helpful summary of your entire presentation; you couldn’t help but bristle a little at that. “Now” – the woman continued, smoothing down the paper number stuck to her hoodie – “I do have a couple of questions about marketing, because this model you’ve presented seems to be a bit all over the place in terms of target demographic, and the retailers you permit into the facility.”

“Our target demographic is the community,” you said firmly. “To accommodate so many different sub-categories within that demographic, we aim to ensure our retailers either provide products for different age ranges, fitness level, interests…even sizes.”

“You offer plus-size clothing in your facility?” Number 412’s tone had shifted, sharpened; there was something icy in her eyes. Beside you, Bucky stiffened, cautious. He was respectful enough to not interfere or speak over you unless you directly asked for back-up, but this was a sensitive topic for him. Something he took seriously.

Number 412 was treading on some very thin ice.

A crisp nod was the most you could manage, but she seemed to want more. “Actually, we prefer the term ‘inclusive sizing,’” you clarified. “We only represent brands that echo our beliefs that clients are clients, and deserve comfortable, affordable clothing to work out in that fits them well.”

The woman’s smile widened; with an expert flick of her wrist, she checked off something on her clipboard. “Perfect. Now, at the risk of sounding exclusive and unprofessional – forgive me, everyone” – she flashed that smile to the rest of the crowd; a collective chuckle burst from them all – “I would love to invite you two out for drinks on me tonight, to talk about how my brand can service yours. I’m Carol Danvers; I represent Assemble Athleisure, and I can’t wait to get you drunk.”

With anyone else’s smile, the request might’ve sounded entirely off-putting, but her humour and expression were such that you found yourself laughing – properly, honest-to-goodness _laughing_ – for the first time in a long time. The crowd seemed to appreciate the pause in professionalism, and Bucky took the mic for a minute to thank Carol for her offer, and promise to meet up after the conference.

The smell of his cologne as he brushed by you had your head spinning, laughter dying in your throat.

Feelings you pressed down firmly one more time, to accept Carol’s offer, and begin fielding more questions.

* * *

The bar was noisy, smoky, and lit by slashes of bright neon that didn’t help with Bucky’s growing migraine. Carol, however, was great company; ordering experimental cocktails that had you giggling and tipsy within a few minutes, once the business was out of the way. Her plan was solid, impressive; Bucky liked the body-neutral message infused into Assemble’s advertising, and when she started handing over freebies – a new pair of sweatpants, a couple of caps, and a tank top that, admittedly made him cringe (he couldn’t stand the thought of bare arms in front of anyone, but it might be good to sleep in) – he liked her even more.

He sipped on something violently blue as you flipped through the glossy catalogue one more time, crowing with delight when you saw a line of kids’ workout gear – immediately texting Aleena to let her know you’d be ordering some custom ones for her children’s group. “Oops,” you said, clumsily adding some unnecessary tree emojis to the message.

Carol burst out laughing, explaining that her husband was the worst for random emojis. “I should bring him along to New York when I come to check out the gym,” she said, wiping at her eyes. “He’s a big fan of the pizza.”

“I’ll take him to the best places,” Bucky reassured her, polishing off the drink. “I know them all.”

His words were a bit slurred, but it was nice to be unfettered, for the first time in a while. The presentation had gone well, despite his cheesy jokes and brewing anxiety – you had nailed it, as he’d known you would.

Bucky studied you, crammed in that little corner table, taking a few shots to stave off the lack of sleep over the past few weeks. He wondered about the date, about the sparkle in your eye; about the pretty curve of your lips and if you remembered trailing them against his jaw, complaining about the stubble but kissing there just the same.

Heat crackled under his skin at the memory, at how it used to be, and he wished he could be that guy again, take your hand and press a kiss to the palm and pull you up to dance and laugh.

Carol could make you laugh – deep, snorting belly laughs that had him falling in love with you all over again, but not the boyish love of the past. No, this was deeper, maybe even a bit stranger. It left him tingling, and warm, and ordering another drink. Smiling as Carol pleaded an early night, explained she wanted to call her husband – his nickname was Rhodey, and for some reason, that had Bucky’s heart breaking, because you were the first one to call him _Bucky_ , and he wanted this. Wanted that. Wanted it all.

She left and Vegas seemed to constrict around the two of you, this electric galaxy of a desert night and the memory of the day’s heat grazing him sweetly as he navigated the bar, the sidewalk, and then the entrance of a casino. Your hand reached for his, your laugh tickled in his ear, and he could’ve kissed you if he had his wits about him more.

You were a little better off, possessing enough clarity to insist that Bucky sidestep the busy tables, cards riffling and winners crowing, leading him to another bar. Slamming down a shot that burned like the summer of college graduation, when he had watched the smooth muscles of your arms lift the canoe paddles fluidly under the early morning sun.

He remembered how those arms had wrapped around him, stretched out on the shore, sand and pebbles biting into his skin, water lapping at his legs. And you, head resting on his chest, soaking up the sunshine, whispering the future against his heart.

Love had been easier, then.

Now, he was dizzy with it, drunk on it, following you around a strange, wide-awake city too late at night, drinks going sickly in his stomach, and longing only for his bed. For _his_ bed. For the mattress at the cabin.

For the shape of you.

This celebration – clunking by in fractured, uncertain hours – was for two adults, he realized, slumping down into another bar booth, not even bothering to check his watch. Two business partners, letting go after a big presentation. Enjoying the bevy of investors and interested parties that had swarmed the two of you back at the conference centre.

And yet there was nothing professional about the bend of your smile under the neon lights, the alcohol soaked into your laughter, and the tinny, discordant notes of something that might’ve been Elvis Presley singing Ave Maria low and smoky in his ear, but he could never be sure.

The only thing Bucky knew for certain was that gold butterflies were painted on the bathroom tiles in what may have been his hotel room, or may have been yours, and that the smell of citrus soap was officially the worst thing in the world.

It might have been five in the morning; it might have been ten. Bucky felt his stomach lurch again, and leaned over the toilet.


End file.
